


4. Order

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Twinkstober 2020 [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Obedience, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Praise Kink, Service Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Talkative Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Twinkstober 2020Prompt: orderTurns out, Jaskiercanshut up, given proper incentive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Twinkstober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923553
Comments: 14
Kudos: 467





	4. Order

"Stay here," Geralt had said.

"I will," Jaskier had replied.

Of course he _hadn't_ stayed, and now he's paying the price.

Another branch whips at his face as he races through the underbrush, the warg behind him much too close, and if he had enough air left in his lungs, he'd be screaming for Geralt. As it is, he can just run for his life, and hope.

The forest gives way to a field, bare in the cold autumn air, the tilled earth craggy and soft both, and he stumbles and almost falls. He yelps, terror coursing through his veins, but he pulls himself together and pushes on. He can't die here, ripped apart in an empty field by a mangy excuse for a lapdog, and so he keeps running.

He _has to._

He makes it halfway across the field before the warg snaps at his heels, snarling, and then its teeth catch in the leg of Jaskier's trousers, and he goes tumbling into the dirt ass over teakettle with a cry. _No, no, no,_ runs though his head in a loop, until he rolls to a stop with a grunt. The warg doesn't charge, just circles him and watches, snarling, and then there's movement at the edge of the forest and two more appear, muzzles dripping, and Jaskier whimpers.

There's a roar, from inside the forest, the wargs' ears pricking up, then flattening as they turn towards the source of the noise with a growl, and next thing Jaskier knows, there's a blur of movement and one of the wargs' heads goes sailing through the air, landing with a horrible wetly crunching noise not far from where he's still sprawled in the dirt.

Geralt stands there, silver sword gleaming in the sunlight, and Jaskier has no words for the relief he's feeling.

The warg that chased him out of the forest gives the Witcher a calculating look, then it tucks its tail and runs, probably deciding that it doesn't stand a chance against the man (hopped up on potions, as Jaskier realises when Geralt looks his way, eyes bottomless pits of darkness) and has no interest in trying its luck. Its remaining companion is not so lucky, as Geralt dispatches it just as quickly as the first one.

He stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, then he wipes his sword on his trousers and sheathes it. Then he turns towards Jaskier, and the bard's heart flutters oddly in his chest.

"I _told_ _you_ ," Geralt more growls than says as he stalks towards him, "to _stay_!"

"I'm sorry," he squeaks, and he's rather glad there's no one around to witness this. "I didn't mean to-"

"You never _mean to_!" Geralt grabs him by the collar like a misbehaving puppy and hauls him to his feet in one smooth motion. Jaskier squeaks again, cheeks flushing. "And yet I _always_ end up having to save you from your own _stupidity_!"

He looks, quite frankly, terrifying like this, his already pale skin almost completely white, appearing even more so with his veins and eyes black as pitch.

" _Why_ can't you just do as you're told?!" He's right in Jaskier's face, towering over him, and Jaskier notices there's blood splattered on his cheek and in his hair.

Jaskier's heart skips a beat, then thuds harder, and it's not from fear.

"I'm sorry," he says again, weakly, and Geralt snarls.

"Go back to the camp. Feed Roach." He turns away, pulling a dagger from its sheath at his belt. "I'm not done with you." With that, he stalks away again, to collect the warg heads Jaskier assumes.

He's trying very hard to ignore his pounding heart as he turns and walks stiffly in the direction of their camp, his cheeks hot and his breeches more than a little tight as he stumbles his way across the field.

Back at the camp, he busies himself with routine tasks: get a fire started, brush down Roach, feed her, set water fo boiling. All things he can do without thinking, and of course his imagination runs away with him.

 _I'm not done with you_ , Geralt had said, and Jaskier shivers. It's an odd sort of anticipation, tinged with fear.

Three quarters of an hour later, Geralt appears out of the quickly falling dusk. He's filthy and carrying the warg heads in a sack, and the expression on his face is stormy. He drops the sack just outside the circle of light provided by the fire, then walks up to Jaskier, who stands waiting, fiddling with his cuffs.

"I really am sorry, Geralt, I-"

Geralt's hand covers his mouth, shutting him up. "I don't want to hear it."

"Bu-"

"Be _quiet_." The Witcher still looks terribly angry, and Jaskier nods, presses his lips together. Finally, Geralt pulls his hand away; Jaskier misses the contact immediately. "You _can't_... You can't keep doing this, Jaskier." His voice is surprisingly gentle, quite at odds with the look on his face. "I can't always protect you. You'll get yourself killed."

 _Would you really care_ , he thinks, _would you miss me?_

Geralt shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and then his hand is back on Jaskier's face, cupping his cheek. Jaskier's heart is beating against his ribs, rabbit quick. "When I tell you to stay behind, you're going to listen from now on, do you understand?"

Jaskier nods, and Geralt's face softens.

Then his hand slides into the bard's hair, pulling him close, and Jaskier squawks in surprise when Geralt kisses him. He's flailing, his hands fluttering awkwardly by his sides as Geralt winds his other arm around him, pulling him against his chest, and for a fleeting second he thinks, _Great, warg blood on silk, this is never coming out_ , but then Geralt licks along the seam of his mouth, and Jaskier forgets what clothing even _is_.

At some point, Jaskier has to pull back to get some air, and he looks at Geralt with wide eyes. "What was _that_?"

"I believe it's called a kiss," Geralt snarks, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Oh, haha, yes, you're one _hilarious_ Witcher. That's not what I was asking."

"Wasn't it?" Geralt's hand is still in his hair, fingers idly playing with it, and the gentleness is so at odds with the way he looks, the effects of the potions still in his blood. Jaskier feels a little lightheaded.

"Why'd you kiss me?"

"Positive reinforcement," the Witcher says, and Jaskier blinks at him. "You do what I tell you, you get a reward," and _oh_ , the way his stomach swoops at that explanation is _new_.

"Oh," he says, very intelligently, and Geralt's smile sharpens. Combined with the black eyes, it's both scary as hell and incredibly arousing.

"Do you like that idea, little lark?" His arm tightens a little around Jaskier's waist, and Jaskier makes a little helpless noise. "I think you do. I think despite all your protests and yammering, you like it when I give you orders."

Maybe, Jaskier thinks, but what he says is, "That's ludicrous, who would enjoy th-"

"Quiet."

His mouth snaps shut.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Geralt's smile turns almost feral, and Jaskier shivers. "Isn't that easier?" Geralt's hand wanders, down his back and to his ass, grabbing him and pulling him tighter against Geralt. Jaskier's eyes flutter at the sensation. "You have two options. You keep not listening to what I say, and I'll dump you in the next village for your own protection, or you listen, and you can stay."

Jaskier stares at the Witcher, mouth agape. Is he being serious?

"So what will it be, lark?" Geralt's eyes are still black, although there's some colour returning to his cheeks, and Jaskier bites his lip.

It's really not a question at all. He would do pretty much _anything_ to stay by Geralt's side, and so he licks his lips and nods. The Witcher smiles and squeezes his ass. "Good," he says before he leans in again and kisses Jaskier.

The bard tries not to dwell on what any of this says about himself. He's always been very in tune with his desires, so this one catches him more than a little off guard.

Ah well. He's adaptive, and never opposed to pleasure, no matter the form it presents itself in.

After a while spent kissing, Geralt pulls back, holding him still by the hair when Jaskier tries to follow. "Here's what's going to happen," Geralt says conversationally, as though he hasn't just spent five minutes kissing Jaskier silly, "you're going to help me with our dinner, quietly. No nattering, no singing, no questions. Just _silence_ , for once. You can talk about things directly related to the food. Think you can do that?"

Jaskier has to think about it for a moment. It's not like his constantly running mouth is something he does consciously, it just... _happens_. So the opposite has to be something he has to consciously choose to do. Can he do that? Just... be quiet? He's not forbidden from talking at all, so that's good. Something niggles at him, though, and he lifts his eyebrows in question.

"You can talk," Geralt says softly. The black has almost entirely faded from his eyes by this point, Jaskier notes.

"What happens if I fail?"

Geralt smiles sharply. "Then I'll have to help you follow my order."

Heat shoots through Jaskier's insides at that. _Oh_. "H-how would you do that?"

"Gag you, for example," Geralt says, and Jaskier whimpers.

"Oh," he says weakly, and Geralt strokes his thumb along his jaw, to his lips.

"You'd look pretty like that, you know?" He presses against Jaskier's lower lip and the bard's mouth falls open for Geralt's thumb to slide inside. "There's craftsmen who make devices for it," he says as he pushes down on Jaskier's tongue, gently forcing his mouth to open wider. "A little ball, fastened around your head. Can't spit it out." He takes back his thumb, even as Jaskier chases after it. It's wet with his saliva as Geralt drags it down his chin, his throat. "You'd drool for me," he says quietly as he drags his thumb down lower, into the dip between his collarbones.

"You've _really_ thought this through," Jaskier says faintly, and Geralt smiles.

"I have." He squeezes Jaskier's ass again. "You can say no," he says quietly. "I won't make you do something you wouldn't want." Then he leans closer, noses at the bard's throat. "But something tells me that wouldn't be the case."

Jaskier shakes his head and laughs weakly. "You'd be right about that." Something occurs to him. "How would I tell you to stop, if I needed you to?"

Geralt is kissing his throat now, a hint of teeth every now and again, which is _very_ distracting indeed. He taps a simple rhythm into the flesh of Jaskier's ass with two fingers. "Otherwise, with a word. Something you'd never say otherwise."

Jaskier immediately knows what he'd never say in a sexual context, and blurts, "Valdo."

Geralt chuckles against his flesh, and Jaskier's knees go a little weak. "Valdo then." He lifts his head to look at the bard, the firelight throwing dramatic shadows onto his features. Jaskier feels rather like he stumbled into some strange dream. "What do you say, lark? Think you can do as you're told?"

His first instinct is to scoff, to say that 'of course he can'. Instead he keeps his mouth firmly closed and nods. Geralt's face softens, and he kisses him, just once, gently.

"Good."

First order of business is getting the Witcher out of his armour, something Jaskier has gotten quite good at. He wants to comment on the blood, the bits of warg flesh that have managed to get into the buckles somehow, the state of his own doublet, which is a lost cause after their embrace earlier. Instead he says - nothing.

After, Geralt washes up while Jaskier fishes out rations from one of the saddlebags, adding tea to the now boiling water after he's removed it from the fire. Usually, he'd complain about the dry rations, lament the lack of ale, or some other frivolous inconvenience, but Geralt said to be quiet.

They eat in silence as well, nothing but the sounds of the woods around them, the crackling of the fire, Roach's quiet huffs from time to time. It's... _odd_ to Jaskier, he who is always somewhere noisy or who creates noise, but it's not unpleasant. He's not alone, and it's not an uncomfortable silence, and so he relaxes into it.

He's also curious what this whole endeavour will earn him, so it's not like he's doing this solely out of the goodness of his heart.

When they're both done eating and have cleaned everything up, he finds himself fidgeting on the log that he's using as a seat. He's been _good_ , hasn't he? Didn't say anything at all the whole time, which, for him, must be some sort of _record_. Geralt watches him across the fire for a long moment, smiling slightly, and finally he beckons the bard over to him. Jaskier all but flies to his side, but Geralt takes him by the waist and directs him to sit between the man's spread thighs, leaning back against him.

"You did well." Geralt's voice is very low, and Jaskier tips his head back against his chest to hear him better. The Witcher slides a hand into his hair, making Jaskier hum with pleasure. "Think you've earned a reward?"

Jaskier is greedy, and part of him wants to blurt out that, _yes, of course_ , what is Geralt _waiting_ for? Instead he lets himself go pliant under the Witcher's hands and hums again. Geralt chuckles.

"Who'd have thought you would be so good for me," he says quietly, "so eager to please." Jaskier shivers, pleasure surging through him at the praise. It's a rare enough occurrence for Geralt to say something so outright positive that this by itself is its own reward. Geralt, however, is not done. "Thank you for listening." He bends his head until his mouth is level with Jaskier's ear, his warm breath fanning over the bard's skin. "Thank you for _obeying_."

Jaskier groans, his fingertips digging into the soil on either side of his legs. _Sweet Melitele_ , he thinks helplessly.

Geralt pushes him a little forward and slides off his own log to sit on the ground behind him. Like this, Jaskier can rest his head on the Witcher's shoulder, Geralt's warmth seeping into his back. Geralt hooks a finger under his chin and tilts his head until he can kiss him, and Jaskier melts into it.

For a long time, that's all that happens, with Geralt's fingers sliding through his hair as he kisses Jaskier until he's boneless against him. The bard is more than a little surprised by this gentle handling, especially given how angry Geralt had been earlier, but part of him assumes it had been more fear for Jaskier's safety than actual anger directed at him.

It's a good thought, and he curls his fingers into the fabric of Geralt's shirt, as if to say, _I'm here, I'm not going anywhere._

Geralt's hands start wandering, his left sliding down from Jaskier's hair to his throat, fingertips gently pressing against his pulse for a moment before he splays them to cover what feels like all of his throat. For a brief second, Jaskier feels panic flare up in his stomach, when the gentle pressure on his windpipe reminds him that Geralt could snap him like a twig, but then the Witcher's other hand slides under his chemise, brushes over his ribs, just holding him, grounding him, and he relaxes back into the man's grip.

"Good boy," Geralt rumbles against his lips, and _oooh, yes_ , Jaskier definitely likes this.

He whimpers softly when Geralt's hand starts to explore, fingers carding through the hair on his chest, thumb stroking over a nipple, and then it wanders lower, over his stomach. He's wound tight now, desire pooling low in his gut. He _needs_ , all of a sudden, and his whimper turns into a groan when Geralt cups him through his breeches.

"Look at you," Geralt says, squeezing him gently, and Jaskier throws back his head. "So nice and hard for me," he breathes against Jaskier's cheek, voice gone soft in a way the bard has _never_ heard. "Do you want me to make you come," he asks, and Jaskier groans again. _Yes, yes, please_ , he wants to say, although, with the way things are going and with how Geralt is talking to him, that's going to happen either way. "I should make you beg for it some time," the Witcher says in a low voice that makes Jaskier shiver all over.

Geralt unbuttons his breeches deftly, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip so hard he can taste blood when the Witcher takes him in hand. He's _so hard_ , and leaking already, he's afraid it'll all be over before it has started. Geralt seems to know this, seems to know Jaskier's body in a way that seems almost supernatural. Stupid Witcher senses.

He just holds Jaskier's cock, callouses almost too much against Jaskier's sensitive flesh. "Pretty little bard," he says, softly, and then he strokes him, once, twice. Jaskier arches his back with a groan, and Geralt's grip on his throat tightens, just for a second, to keep him in place. "You're being _so good_ for me," Geralt continues as he runs his thumb through the fluid at the tip of Jaskier's cock, a slow back and forth that has Jaskier wanting to cry. "I know how much you talk when you fuck," the Witcher says, "and I know how hard this must be for you." He gives Jaskier another stroke and twists his wrist, and Jaskier can't stop himself, he cries out wordlessly, eyes squeezed shut.

It's _ridiculous_ , really. Geralt has barely touched him, and he's so very close to spilling all over himself he can almost taste it.

"Want to know how often I've sat in my room when we didn't have to share, listening to you while you fucked some pretty barmaid? I sit by the wall and listen, and stroke myself just like this," and again he twists his wrist in that way that makes Jaskier see stars, "wondering what you'd sound like taking my cock." He kisses Jaskier's neck, sucks a bruise into his skin, and Jaskier whimpers. "Always knew you wanted me," the Witcher rumbles, "could smell it on you." He chuckles. "Didn't know you'd like _this_ , though."

His pace is still tortuously slow, just a languid motion that has Jaskier perpetually on the edge. If he was allowed the use of his words, he'd _definitely_ be begging now.

As if in response to those thoughts, Geralt speeds up ever so slightly, and again Jaskier gives a cry. His fingers dig into the Witcher's thighs as he tries to hold on, tries not to come. He doesn't want this to end yet, and he's doing pretty well, he thinks, until Geralt squeezes his throat again.

"Go on, lark, sing for me," and he strokes his thumb over Jaskier's head again, twists his wrist just so, and Jaskier comes with a scream. He comes so hard his vision whites out for a long, blissful moment, and he floats in that emptiness, boneless and sated and happy.

When he comes back to himself, he's cradled against Geralt's chest, the Witcher's nose buried in his hair. Jaskier hums and snuggles closer.

"You can talk, if you want," Geralt says against the back of his neck, and Jaskier shivers again.

"That was... unexpected." He stretches, and only now notices the insistent line of Geralt's cock pressed against his back. "Let me return the favour?"

Geralt hums, his grip tightening around Jaskier. "It's fine."

"Geralt," Jaskier says softly, " _please_."

The Witcher just continues holding him, preventing him from turning around. "Maybe tomorrow," he murmurs, "if you're good."

Incredibly, that sends a fresh wave of lust surging through him, even though he just came his brains out. Geralt chuckles behind him, and tugs his cloak over with one hand, spreading it over Jaskier.

"Go to sleep, Jaskier," he rumbles, and Jaskier lets himself be pulled closer, curls into Geralt's embrace.

After a while, he asks, "Can we... can we talk about this?"

Geralt hums. "Tomorrow."

"Alright." He's feeling the long day now, a bone-deep fatigue taking hold of him, and he yawns. "Good night, dear heart," he murmurs as Geralt presses a final kiss against his forehead.

"Good night, Jask," the Witcher rumbles, and Jaskier drifts off, a smile still on his lips.


End file.
